


The Nearness of You

by npc_113



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Anger, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Loss, Comfort/Angst, Depression, Grief/Mourning, Gunshot Wounds, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Negative Dialogue Options, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Preston Garvey Needs a Hug, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Survivor Guilt, but we deal with that later, child loss is about the Longs, dialogue from both the game script and my own, if u played mass effect then expect renegade-like dialogue, mainly by mama murphy, minutemen quest spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:09:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23721379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/npc_113/pseuds/npc_113
Summary: James is an asshole. He's rude and unsympathetic, speaking his mind when he really shouldn't and keeping everything about himself but his name a secret.And yet, for some reason, Preston feels drawn to him.___James stays silent by his side, not looking at the monument but at Sanctuary. Most of the houses are still in good enough condition to live in, but that doesn't seem to be what James is thinking. In fact, his eyes look somewhat soft as they roam from house to house before landing on one in particular.“You'll never rebuild this,” he says, voice strangely rough. He doesn't look away from the house.He’s right, Preston thinks for a moment before shaking the thought from his head right after. “Despair is easier,” he says instead. “Believe me, I know.” James glances at him, looking so damn lost that Preston almost doesn't know what to say, still, he gathers himself up and continues on. He’s a leader. He has to inspire hope, even for those he isn’t responsible for. “But I've seen people come together to build a better world.” He looks back at the monument. “That's what the Minutemen were all about, before it all fell apart.”
Relationships: Preston Garvey/Male Sole Survivor, Preston Garvey/Sole Survivor
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	1. Just in Time

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow my main Tumblr [here](https://npc-113.tumblr.com/) and my writing Tumblr [here](https://npc-113-writes.tumblr.com/) :)

When Preston first laid eyes on James he could practically _feel_ the cool rush of relief coat his body, only for that relief to be stomped on the next moment. He introduced himself quickly — James, just James, and scoffed at Preston’s idea of using the abandoned power armor that had crashed through the roof of the museum, calling it a suicide mission. Preston was damn lucky Sturges was there to talk some sense into the hard-headed man, else they probably would have died in that museum. The last of the Minutemen, picked apart by raiders; how poetic. 

James had eventually sighed and agreed with their plan, trudging back to the basement to grab the fusion core and coming back up moments later. Preston had thanked him only to be waved off as James continued to the other door, the way to the power armor, but before he could get there, Mama Murphy stopped him. She said something about his dog, causing him to immediately stand between her and the mutt, low brow growing even lower to the point where the shadow they caused made his steel eyes appear almost black. He clicked his tongue at her after she had finished explaining The Sight to him, calling her a psycho and moving on with his mission, only sparing a passing glance at the Longs. 

Only a little while after James enters the room does the sound of a full suit of power armor jumping off the second story come. Preston can feel the weak supports of the museum shake with the impact and Jun jumps noticeably. He peeks out the window to see James mowing down raider after raider, the tip of the minigun glowing a bright yellow, slowly turning red. The sound of Dogmeat rushing through the room and down to the exit to help with the fight is hardly audible over the pelting stutter of the minigun. The bullets stop for a moment as James reloads, and Preston catches sight of a raider rearing back to throw a Molotov cocktail at him, quickly beaming him in the head before he’s able. 

Not long after the barrage of bullets stop does it start again, just before an earth-shattering roar comes from the part of the road hidden behind a wall of buildings. Preston doesn't have time to guess what it is before a deathclaw turns the corner, barreling towards James, who stands stock still in shock for a moment, only able to move to dodge a second before it would have hit him. That seems to shake him from his stupor, as he shouts at Dogmeat to get back before starting up the minigun again, stopping to dodge the deathclaw periodically. Preston tries to assist the best he can, but his damn laser musket only has the capacity for two turns and does shit for damage against something as monolithic as a deathclaw. 

He ran out of bullets halfway through the fight, needing to resort to a pipe pistol he grabbed off a raider’s body and an actual lead pipe to beat off the beast when it came too close. But, eventually, _somehow_ , James pulls through. Preston shouts at him to come back to the museum and herds what’s left of the Minutemen downstairs to the entrance. James comes in just as they’re arriving, the right arm and left leg of his power armor broken beyond use and his helmet tucked under his shoulder, showing off the way deep black hair sticks to his sweat-stained forehead. He’s clearly panting, yet for some reason refuses to open his mouth to breathe, instead making his nostrils flare in what Preston is scared to say looks a lot like anger. 

Preston tries his best to put on an encouraging smile and offers him some caps and fusion cells. James snarls at the reward and doesn't take it, looking back to Preston and saying, “I didn’t save you for a damn reward.”

Preston is taken aback at the very least, putting the caps and fusion cells back into his pocket. “Hey, sorry,” he winces, truly apologetic for assuming that James was like every other bastard he’s met in the Commonwealth. “I'm used to everyone being in it only for themselves.”

James scoffs and looks away. “Well, I’m not.”

Preston nods and turns back to everyone else, or more just Marcy, since Sturges doesn't care what they do, Mama Murphy was the one to suggest going to Sanctuary in the first place, and Jun isn’t in the right mindset to make his own decisions right now. After a small argument with Marcy, they decide to start moving to Sanctuary. James tags along, muttering that they’re helpless on their own and he didn’t save them just for them to get killed on the road right after. 

So they walk, shoulder to shoulder — or more, shoulder to elbow in Preston’s case, as the power armor adds another solid foot to James’ height. They reach Sanctuary without a hitch, and Preston stops right before the Old North Bridge. 

“Well I’ll be damned,” he mutters, before going on about the original Minutemen, stating that this has to be a good omen. 

James stays silent by his side, not looking at the monument but at Sanctuary. Most of the houses are still in good enough condition to live in, but that doesn't seem to be what James is thinking. In fact, his eyes look somewhat soft as they roam from house to house before landing on one in particular. 

“You'll never rebuild this,” he says, voice strangely rough. He doesn't look away from the house. 

_He’s right,_ Preston thinks for a moment before shaking the thought from his head right after. “Despair is easier,” he says instead. “Believe me, I know.” James glances at him, looking so damn lost that Preston almost doesn't know what to say. Still, he gathers himself up and continues on. He’s a leader. He has to inspire hope, even for those he isn’t responsible for. “But I've seen people come together to build a better world.” He looks back at the monument. “That's what the Minutemen were all about, before it all fell apart.”

James sighs and shakes his head and they both walk deeper into Sanctuary, Sturges calling James to the side almost as soon as they reach the house the others seem to have decided to make their home base. He watches James leave and takes time to actually _look_ at the man. He had let slip something about having lived here before whilst they were talking earlier. Not to mention he’s wearing a damn vault suit and has whiter teeth than anyone else he’s ever seen in the Commonwealth. At first he had thought that he was just a vault dweller, one that got too curious about the outside world, but the way he fights, the ease at which he uses a gun, hell, even the way he _talks_. There’s wasteland experience in him, but at the same time, he seems to know nothing about his situation.

Preston watches James and Sturges talk for a moment before James runs a hand through his hair and turns back to the house. Sturges walks to Preston and points a thumb towards James. 

“Stubborn, that one,” he complains. Preston can’t help but agree.

“What did you talk with him about?”

“Ah, jus’ some maintenance. Makin’ beds and the like.”

Preston chuckles. “And he _agreed_?”

“As much as a guy like him can, I suppose.”

They walk into the house that James had walked in, just in time to hear the tail end of Mama Murphy’s sentence. “—ain't gonna change my mind. We're done talking about this for now, hear me?” She practically growls, her voice dark and as close to angry as Preston’s ever heard it.

James lets out a “tch” and leaves the house, shouldering past Preston and Sturges on his way out. 

“Now what the hell was that about?” Sturges asks, making his way into the house and flopping on a couch that must be prewar considering all the water damage and holes that some animal chewed in it.

“Kid don’t believe in The Sight, that’s all. Thinks threats can get me to stop using it,” Mama Murphy sighs, sitting in an armchair that’s in a similar condition to the couch Sturges is using.

Preston chews his lip but says nothing. The Sight might be useful, but he’s not so sure giving chems to an elderly woman is worth it. He looks to Sturges and says, “I’ll go check on him,” before leaving the house and going to search for James.

He isn’t hard to find. Preston spots the bright blue and yellow of the vault suit through the holes in the wall of one of the houses then enters to see him sitting on his knees in the middle of the floor, poking a needle and thread through the fabric of what looks to be a sleeping bag. 

“Fuck off,” James growls without looking up from his sewing, but Preston is not deterred. 

“Didn’t know you could sew,” he says, leaning against a wall and watching James work.

James scoffs. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I mean we did just meet,” Preston tries to keep the mood light, but James clearly isn’t having it.

“We didn’t _meet_. I saved your ass and now you all are taking up in _my_ town.”

“Don’t remember seeing your name on the sign,” Preston mutters under his breath, and he can practically feel the temperature in the room go down.

James rears up. “Look—” 

“Sorry,” Preston interrupts. James goes silent but his hostile posture doesn’t lessen. “I didn’t mean to be rude. All I’m saying is that we don’t know you. You appear outta nowhere and wield any weapon you can pick up like a pro, and all you give us is your name. You’re right James, we _don’t_ know _anything_ about you, but who said we don’t want to?”

It’s silent for a moment. James keeping eye contact and Preston wondering if perhaps he has trouble sleeping, what with the deep circles around his eyes. The half-moons almost distract from the deep scar across the left side of his face, tracing from hairline to jawline. _Almost_. Scars aren’t uncommon in the wasteland, but one as glaring and broad as that one is certainly a focal point. 

Eventually, James sits back down and goes back to his sewing. Preston curses himself for thinking it, but as he watches James he can’t help but think he’d be useful. The guy’s an asshole, but he’s a helpful one. Hell, he just got in an argument with him and he’s still helping out, so that’s his reasoning for what he says next. 

“There's something I need to ask you.”

James grunts, not looking up. Preston takes it as a sign to continue.

“I've had word from a settlement asking for help,” he starts, and James’ hands stop moving. Taking it as a bad sign, he rushes through the rest of the request. “They're still hoping there are Minutemen out there somewhere. The only chance to start rebuilding the Minutemen is to _show_ people that they can _count_ on us when they need us.” James looks up at him, his expression still angry and _maybe_ this is a bad time to ask, but he’s in too far already. “Trouble is, I've got my hands full here.” James still doesn’t speak, so Preston decides to prompt him. “Do you think you could go help out the settlement?”

James looks back down to the now finished sleeping bag in his lap. He stands up and tosses it to the floor, muttering “Two more” under his breath and then looking back to Preston. “I’m busy right now.” Preston feels his heart sink at that. It was stupid to think that James would help him right after they had an argument. But then, “I’ll stop by when I’m done here.”

Preston sighs with relief. “That’s fantastic. Really. I’d do it myself, you know, it’s just—”

“I don’t care. I said I’ll do it, now leave me alone.” He walks past Preston, this time not bumping their shoulders and moves to the living room of the house to start shredding a couch, seemingly to make another sleeping bag. 

Preston follows. “Really, James,” he says with a smile, dropping a hand onto his shoulder and squeezing. “You’re a huge help. We couldn’t have done any of this without you.”

James huffs and shrugs his hand off before waving a hand at him dismissively. “Go away. You’re distracting me.”

Preston chuckles at that, beginning to think that the hostility surrounding James might just be a front and turns to leave, just missing the way James’ ears flush a little at the sound of his laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm writing this as I replay Fallout, so expect some sporadic updates. I kinda forget how the conversation at the monument went and couldn't find a playthrough that used the negative dialogue options so I had to read Preston's script on the Wiki, which is honestly one of the most difficult things to navigate. 
> 
> Also, I'd like to apologize to those expecting a superbat fic because of my last post. I'm working on filling some of the requests now, that pairing takes a while to write, is all. Especially AUs.
> 
> Chapter title from the song [Just in Time by Frank Sinatra](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p3Pw-_rnPnU)


	2. I Get Along Without You Very Well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wouldja look at that! I updated a fic within the month of posting it! This is progress!

James is gone the next morning. Preston asks around but the most information he gets is from Sturges telling him that James had come to him for a few more jobs than left the settlement without another word, both Dogmeat and his Mister Handy tagging along with him. It was a little upsetting to Preston, that James just up and left, but life goes on. 

By five days he gives up on the hope that James might come back and tries to move on with running the settlement. Jun starts to talk a little more seven days in and Marcy stops complaining as much at eight. Occasionally a radstag will wander into Sanctuary, which is always a blessing from carrots and tatos. A group of ghouls tries to break through their defenses but are made quick work of thanks to the turrets James had put together. Preston can only wonder where James got the knowledge of making a damn turret from.

Two weeks after James’ arrival and impromptu disappearance, he comes back, in another suit of power armor to boot. 

He walks right past Preston at first, not even sparing him a glance. The helmet is off, as usual, and he parks himself outside the main base to get out of the armor. He looks… well, he certainly looks like he could use a bath at the very least. There’s dirt and blood caked onto his vault suit in such large quantities that Preston can’t tell if the blood is James’ or some poor raiders who tried to pick a fight with him, and his face isn’t faring much better.

James turns to him and strides forward until they’re face to face, cocking his head slightly and looking Preston up and down. 

“Good to see you again,” Preston greets, not shrinking under the scrutiny. 

James rolls his eyes. “The settlement decided to join the Minutemen,” he says simply, glancing over Prestons shoulder. 

“That’s great news,” Preston encourages, holstering his musket. “I knew you were the right person for the job.” It’s a white lie, sure, but James’ cocky posture becomes more and more stiff as Preston lays on the compliments, and who could resist that? “By the way,” he feels in his pocket for his flare gun and holds it out to him, “you should have one of these flare guns. You can signal for help from any nearby Minutemen.” Not that their numbers are  _ large _ , per se, but it’s the thought that counts. James raises a brow and looks down at the gun before taking it from Prestons hand gingerly. “Not much use yet,” Preston admits, “but once we have more allied settlements, you’ll have help whenever you need it.” James doesn’t seem to pick up the insinuation that  _ he’ll  _ have to be the one to ally the settlements, but that’s probably a conversation for another day. 

James looks to the west and sighs before pocketing the flare gun. “I’m going to sleep,” he says and turns away towards the house across from the base. 

“There’s running water in that one,” Preston calls after him. “So you can wash up.”

James doesn’t stop moving but does raise a hand over his shoulder to give a wave, a sign that he heard him, which is enough in Preston’s book.

* * *

James doesn’t come out of the house until the sun is gone past noon the next day. Preston honestly was afraid that he had snuck out whilst everyone was sleeping, but Dogmeat is still napping in his doghouse and the Mister Handsy, who introduced himself as Codsworth that morning, has been helping the Longs out with farming despite Marcy’s complaints. 

When James finally comes out of the house, he looks marginally better. He’s got his vault suit tucked under his arm and is currently wearing a pair of army fatigues that Preston has no clue where he got from. His skin looks clean now, but without the dust and dirt covering him the new scratches from his expedition are out in the open, probably not even having been cleaned properly. There’s a small basin outside the house filled with rain water that James tosses the vault suit into before fishing into his pockets for what looks like a strip of jerky to toss at Dogmeat who had run up to meet him. 

Preston approaches casually with his musket holstered and can see how James shoulders tense when he hears his voice. 

“Well, good morning. Or, well, afternoon, I suppose,” Preston greets with a smile. 

James glares at him and kneels down to pet Dogmeat. “What do you want?”

Preston raises a brow. “Can’t I just say hi?”

“You  _ can _ ,” James responds but continues to look at him suspiciously. 

Preston raises his hands in surrender. “Ah, you got me,” he grins. “I didn’t come here just to say hi.”

“No shit. Get on with it.”

Preston feels a pang of annoyance but continues. “You need to clean those wounds.”

“They’re fine.”

“They’re clearly not. Do you  _ want _ them to get infected?”

James seems to mull over that for a moment before shaking his head. “I’ll deal with them later.”

“Will you really?”

Another pause. 

“Here,” Preston gestures to a bench nearby and then pulls out some bandages and a travel sized bottle of vodka he keeps for emergencies. “Sit, I’ll take care of them.”

“I don’t need you to  _ take care  _ of me,” James snarls and Preston has to resist the urge to slap some sense into him. 

“I’m not— look, we need you, and if you die of some petty infection then it’ll look bad for both of us. Just let me patch you up and we can go on our way.”

James locks his eyes on Preston and stares for what feels like an hour but was probably only five minutes before finally giving in and rising to sit on the bench. 

He stares at his feet as Preston joins him and wets the end of a bandage with the vodka and moves to wipe at a particularly nasty gash over James’ cheek. 

“This is going to sting,” he murmurs.

When James doesn’t respond he goes ahead and begins to clean the cut. At first contact James hisses but holds still, and that’s the only sound the other man makes for the rest of the cleaning. 

After finishing the few cuts on his face Preston leans back to look at his handy work. “Anything else?” He asks despite knowing that if there is, then James probably won’t tell him. 

James mumbles something that Preston can’t make out. 

“What was that?” He asks, turning his head so that he can catch James’ eye. 

“My arm,” James repeats, still looking at the ground. 

“Ah,” Preston remarks lamely, shocked that James would actually admit to him about another injury. “Which one?”

“Left.”

“Can I see?”

James nods slightly and rolls his sleeve up to the shoulder to show what looks like a rag tied around his bicep. Preston unties the knot and drops the rag to the ground before taking a sharp inhale at what he sees. There’s a deep laceration around five inches long across James’ bicep along with a few smaller notches surrounding it. The blood seems to have stopped flowing, but Preston can see concerningly deep into the main cut. 

“Shit,” Preston exhales and James let’s put a huff at that. 

“Sniper got me and then some asshole threw a Molotov at me before I could get outta the way.”

Preston extends James’ arm out before pouring what is left of the vodka onto the wounds. “You sure all the glass is out?” He asks and gets another nod from James. “Okay,” he sighs and starts to cover the bigger cut with some gauze. 

After about ten minutes Preston leans away for a second time. 

“Done,” he exclaims, patting James on the shoulder. “I think you’re the quietest guy I’ve ever treated.”

James clears his throat and rolls his sleeve back down. “Yeah,” he says, clearly uncomfortable but not moving to get up. 

Preston sits in the silence for a minute before clearing his own throat. They’re both looking out across the street at the base. Preston can see Mama Murphy sitting on a couch with Jun through a hole in the wall and Marcy, Sturges and Codsworth all seem to be chatting over their gardening. It’s calming, somewhat. The threat of raiders or gunners or ghouls attacking is as far away as a thought can be. 

“I guess you know I’m the last of the Minutemen,” Preston starts, still looking out at the garden. He can sense James shift next to him. “But I never really told you what happened to us.” 

James takes in a breath. “You don’t have to tell me.”

He shakes his head gently. He owes James an explanation. He got hurt helping Preston and doesn’t even know who he’s fighting for. “Have you heard of the Quincy Massacre?” 

“No,” is all James says. 

Preston raises a brow.  _ Really? _ “I thought everyone in the Commonwealth knew about that by now,” he airs. He can’t help the small twist of anger in his gut as he continues. “Where the Minutemen betrayed each other,” he pauses then spits: “and the people they were supposed to protect.”

James is silent, and when Preston glances at him, he’s leaned back on the bench, staring at the clouds. 

“I was with Colonel Hollis’ group,” he begins. James probably doesn’t know who Colonel Hollis even  _ is _ , but he’s beginning to think this is more James allowing him to grieve to him than it is Preston explaining the situation. “A mercenary group called the Gunners were attacking Quincy; the people there called the Minutemen to help.” He clicks his tongue in disgust. “We were the only ones that came. The other groups,” he pauses, trying to regain a bit of composure. “They just— just  _ turned their backs.  _ On us,  _ and  _ the folks in Quincy.” 

There’s something hard in his throat, making it difficult to swallow, but James doesn’t push. He just sits there quietly, listening. 

“Only a few of us got out alive. Colonel Hollis was dead,” his voice cracks at that but he continues. “So I ended up in charge of the survivors.” 

He thinks back to Hollis’ face, eyes open and glazed. They didn’t have time to bury him. His body is probably still there, in Quincy. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s been dragged off by super mutants or eaten by ghouls. Best not to think of it. 

“We never found a safe place to settle. One disaster after another.” Again, he looks to James. He’s still facing the sky, but now his jaw is clearly set and his brow furrowed. He’s probably getting annoyed at how damn bleak Preston is acting. He can’t really blame him if that’s the case. “You saw how it ended, in Concord.”

“...You can’t just let them step on you,” James speaks for the first time since Preston started. It’s so like him, to be so defiant. Maybe it’s blind hope, maybe it’s experience. Either way, it’s the attitude that Preston  _ should _ have. The attitude a  _ leader  _ should have. 

“I’m not—” Preston starts and then rethinks for a moment. “I’m not about to give up. But… I can’t protect the Commonwealth all by myself.” He squeezes his fist and focuses on the dull sting of nails trying to break flesh. “Hell, I could barely protect these people.”

James finally looks at him, confusion written on his face. 

Preston smiles at him. “That’s why I’m talking to you.  _ I _ can’t rebuild the Minutemen,” he pauses for a moment just to bask in the way James’ eyes go wide. He knows what Preston’s about to ask him. “But I think you can.”

“I don’t—” James starts, face coated in shock. “I don’t know the first thing about the Minutemen.”

Preston chuckles at that. “That doesn’t matter. The Minutemen of the last few years are gone, and nobody’s going to miss them.” He grins even wider, knowing that James will appreciate what he’s about to say. “We don’t need any more petty politics, or squabbling over resources, or arguing over who has seniority.” James nods along during the whole time, his lips drawing into a faint smile as Preston continues, and Preston’s mind can’t help but stray for a moment to consider how good he looks when smiling, even if it’s something as little as that. “We need someone who can bring the whole Commonwealth together in a common cause,” Preston complements because he can’t help himself when it comes to the light blush that results every time. “And I think you’ve got it in you to be that leader.”

James rubs his palm over his cheek that isn’t bandaged and shakes his head. “What makes you think I can do this?” 

Preston’s a little taken aback that James would even  _ wonder  _ that, but explains anyway. Maybe the man isn’t as full of himself as he seems. “You saved us in Concord. There wasn’t anything in it for you. You had your own problems to deal with. But you did it anyway.” Explaining it to James made Preston realize how damn saintly that James really is, despite being so coarse and rough on the outside. “That kind of selflessness has been in mighty short supply around here for quite a while.” 

James runs a hand through his hair, his eyes still a little wide and nods once, jerkily. “Okay,” he says, sounding almost like he’s trying to convince himself. “I’ll do it.”

Preston lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Good,” he says once before feeling the relief rush through him, not much different from their meeting back in Concord, except this time it doesn’t get stepped on. “Good!” He laughs a little hysterically. “Welcome aboard. I feel like this is a whole new start for the Minutemen, and the Commonwealth, too.” He drifts a little closer to James and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll be right beside you all the way—” That could be enough. Probably would be enough, but he can’t help himself. He has to feel the word on his tongue, has to call James’ new title, just once. “—General.”

James scoffs at that. “I’m no  _ ‘General’ _ .”

“You’re gonna have to get used to it,” Preston laughs, tightening the hand on James’ shoulder. “The leader of the Minutemen has always held the rank of General.” His hand drifts off James’ shoulder and back into his own lap. “Our last leader was General Becker,” he remarks. “After he died back in ‘82, nobody could agree on who should take his place. The one good thing about being the last of the Minuteman is there’s no one to argue with me when I say you’re the new General,” he smiles morbidly and James laughs, actually  _ laughs.  _

The crease that seemed to be permanent between his brow eases to nothing and his head throws back, allowing the evening light to brighten his eyes and dampen the darkness that hangs around them.  _ He’s beautiful,  _ Preston can’t stop himself from thinking, but tries his best anyway. James hardly tolerates him, there’s no chance in hell he’d see Preston the same way. 

When James’ laughter seems to have died down, Preston continues. “Now it’s your job to make it more than an empty title,” he closes, and James nods. 

“Yeah,” James says, putting his hands on his knees and standing up. “I will.”

And with that, he’s gone. Walking over to Codsworth and exchanging a few words before making his way to the Old North Bridge. 

“Hey!” Preston hears Sturges call after him. “You just got here! Where’re you goin’?”

“Red Rocket,” Preston can barely hear James say over his shoulder. “It’s too loud here.”

Dogmeat trots from his doghouse to follow alongside James as they cross the bridge, and Preston is left to watch as they disappear over the horizon. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Preston's got way too low of standards lol. He also needs a therapist, jeez. Reading his Wiki made me sad. Like, I knew he has survivors guilt, but... damn.
> 
> Also one of my old teachers name was Becker so talking about General Becker being a good guy makes me angry. I really hated that teacher lol 
> 
> Chapter title from [I Get Along Without You Very Well by Frank Sinatra](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h3u3clov9mE)


	3. It Could Happen to You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick little content warning! There's some light description of violence and some heavy discussion of sexuality and homophobia. Make sure only to read if you're comfortable with that, stay safe guys :)

James comes back to Sanctuary three days later. Just in time too, considering that Preston had just received word from Oberland Station asking for help. Except, just like last time, James walks past Preston. Dogmeat is kind enough to yip and nudge against his legs in hello, but James walks straight to Mama Murphy.

“Oh dear,” Preston hears Codsworth sigh and he turns to the robot. 

“‘Oh dear’? What’s wrong?” He asks, trying to keep an eye on Mama Murphy and James as he asks.

Two of what work as Codsworth’s eyes focus on Preston while the other one stays on James, whether to reassure Preston that James won’t do anything or to make sure James won’t  _ actually _ do something, Preston isn’t sure he wants to know. “Well, drug use has always been something of a pet peeve for Master James, although I’m not entirely sure why.”

“I’ll have to ask him,” Preston remarks.

“Good luck with that, Sir,” says Codsworth just as James seems to be wrapping up his conversation with Mama Murphy. “Truly.” 

And with that Codsworth leaves, moving towards the garden and starting to tend the razorgrain. Watching Codsworth work was almost distracting enough for Preston to not notice James approaching him, but he does.

“What was that about?” Preston asks him once James is within speaking distance.

James looks towards Mama Murphy, who’s now walking into the base with a sour look on her face. “She said she’d cut off on the chems.”

Preston raises a brow at that. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

James doesn’t say anything else, leaving them in awkward silence.

“Well, I—” 

“Can—”

Again they both stop speaking, having overlapped each other. 

“You go,” James says.

“No, I’m sure—”

“Just  _ go _ ,” James repeats and Preston wonders for a moment if he wants him to go as in leave or go as in speak.

“I got word from another settlement. I was hoping you could help out.”

James sighs. “I’m not doing it alone.”

“I’m sorry, we don’t have anyone to spare—”

“Got you, don’t I?”

Preston seizes up and looks to James who has a slight flush in his cheeks that gets deeper once it reaches his ears. “You want me to come with you?”

“Forget it.”

“No! No, I’m just…  _ surprised _ , is all. I didn’t expect you to be able to ask for help.”

“Fuck,” James grumbles, rubbing a hand over his face and Preston notices that the only bandage to remain on his face was the one he put over his cheek, the rest of the cuts already having completely healed or scabbed over. “I shouldn’t have said that. Just forget it.”

James begins to walk away towards Old North Bridge but Preston grabs his arm before he can take another step. 

James hisses and yanks his arm away, Preston realizes belatedly that he grabbed the arm that he had patched up those few days prior. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“But seriously. I’ll come with you. Sturges is more than able to run camp while I’m gone.”

James grumbles for a bit, kicking the toe of his boot into the ground. “Fine. Where’s the settlement?”

Preston grins. “Well, since I’ll be coming with you, how ‘bout I lead the way?”

James nods his head then whistles for Dogmeat, who comes running up to him as soon as he calls. “I have enough supplies for a week,” James says, leaning to grab a stick from the ground and tossing it over the bridge for Dogmeat to chase after.

“Oberland is around a few days' walk,” Preston smiles, patting James on his right shoulder, making sure to avoid the injured arm.

-

The first day of travel goes by uneventfully. They set up camp at Bedford Station for the night after clearing it of ghouls, the day having gone by much faster than Preston had expected. Traveling in complete silence  _ really _ makes time fly.

“Maybe we shoulda taken that new power armor with us, huh?” Preston quips, unrolling his bedroll as James drags a shelf to block the door.

James grunts, tossing a landmine in front of the other door before shutting it tight. “Don’t like wearing it.”

“Why’s that?” Preston asks, opening a toolbox to see if there’s anything useful in it. Nothing, as usual.

James unrolls his own bedroll. He doesn’t answer.

“You don’t have to answer if you aren’t comfortable. Just wanna get to know you, is all.”

James scoffs. “Can’t imagine why,” he mutters, turning out the light of his Pip-Boy and basking them both in darkness. Without the sickly green from the device, the only light source is the rising moon’s rays shining through the broken windows. 

“You really don’t think much of yourself,” Preston says without thinking, regretting it immediately after. They’re not close enough to broach that topic. But instead of an eruption of curses, James is dead quiet. Preston doesn't even hear him breathe.

A few minutes later, Preston breaks the stillness between them. “James?”

“Go to sleep, Preston.”

“Right. Goodnight.”

-

The next morning they act as if nothing happened, despite how the conversation plays in Preston’s head the entire time. They sit on their bedrolls and share a box of Sugar Bombs, James clearly gagging as he forces them down. 

James really  _ does  _ think lowly of himself though, doesn't he?

Preston supposes he can relate to the man in that way. Honestly, he saw it in James only a few hours after meeting him. It takes one to know one, he supposes. He wonders if James’ situation is similar to his own, or if his reason is different. 

They travel along the railroad for the rest of the day, fighting off a few groups of ghouls and trying to avoid Lexington as best they can. God knows what’s in the hollowed-out corpse of the old colonial town.

Corvega Assembly Plant was their next campsite. James does the same as last time, placing mines and blocking off the doors before rolling out his bedroll. The two of them hadn’t had a real conversation the whole day, and James seems perfectly happy with that. 

Preston is not.

“Are you from the Commonwealth?”

It’s dark enough now that Preston can’t see James’ reaction, which gives him a huge disadvantage in the conversation. “What’s it— ugh.” Preston hears rustling from James’ side of the room. “I get it. You’re trying to be friendly or whatever, but just…  _ don’t _ .”

“I’m genuinely curious, James,” Preston sighs. “Indulge me, please.”

James grumbles for a moment. “I… I guess I am.”

“You guess?” Preston lays back on his bedroll and gets comfortable, sighing at the alleviation of strain on his back. 

“It doesn't matter. Goodnight.”

Preston shakes his head but can already feel the weight of sleep start to press down on his consciousness. “Goodnight, James.”

-

The next day they make it to Oberland Station. The fog is so thick that they can barely see the building from where one of the settlers stops them on the railroad.

“Did the Minutemen send you?” She asks. Her voice is ragged and torn, face and clothes covered in dirt and dust; a testament to the life of a farmer.

“Yes,” James says before Preston can respond. “What’s the problem?”

Preston winces at the hard words, but the woman doesn't seem to care, or if she does, she certainly doesn't show it. 

“There’s a group of raiders that just won’t leave us alone.” She runs a hand through her hair, shaking off the few strands that fell out while she did so. “Stealing our food and supplies. Threatening us if we can’t give them what they want. They’re coming from the old Back Street Apparel near Diamond City, but we can’t stand up to them ourselves.”

“More raiders,” James mutters, an annoyed expression passing his face. “Fine.”

“We really are grateful for the help,” she smiles weakly. “And I’m Rebecca, by the way.” She shakes both of their hands before moving to join the other settler where he’s picking tatos off the vine. 

“So, Back Street Apparel?” Preston asks, turning to grin at James. “You ready?”

“Let’s go,” James growls. “Damn raiders, getting on my fuckin’ nerves.”

-

James picks off the three guards at the door to Back Street Apparel while Preston makes quick work of the two turrets placed outside. 

“Gotta admit,” Preston chuckles, holstering his musket, “You can be damn scary.”

James…  _ flinches _ .

“They deserve it,” he growls, checking on Dogmeat before crouching down to open the door. 

They’re greeted with the sound of someone laughing. “Damn, you got some good stories,” the voice cackles. “Got another one?”

“Hmm,” a second voice says. “Oh, how ‘bout this one? A couple years back, before I met Clutch, me and a couple friends found a young kid on the north side of the Charles.”

James turns his head to Preston, mouthing  _ ‘Clutch?’ _

Preston shrugs. He’s never heard the name before.

“He wasn’t that young,” the raider continues, “probably around 18 or so. Anyway, after hangin’ out with him for a while, it started to get dark, so I built a fire. I kid you not, as soon as I lit the first match, the kid screams ‘What are you doing?’ and knocks the match out of my hand.”

“He knocked the match out of your hand?” The first voice crows, “Why’d he do that?”

“Shh! I’m telling a story,” the first voice scolds. “So, yeah, he knocks the match out of my hand. I was so surprised that I swung and broke his nose. He said he was sorry, and get this… he said he was  _ afraid of fire.” _

“Hah! Oh man, he was afraid of  _ fire _ ?”

“I just told you he was afraid of fire,” the second voice says, irked. “You keep interrupting me — it’s irritating.” 

Preston sees James’ lip quirk upwards slightly at her annoyance and he can’t help a smile himself, despite their situation.

“As soon as he told me that, I thought of somethin’,” she resumes. “I quickly apologized for hitting him and told him it’s nothin’ to be ashamed of. That night, me and the others got this kid so drunk, so fast, he passed out within an hour. Then we dragged him to the banks of the Charles.”

James’ brow draws and his grin disappears. Preston feels a sinking feeling in his gut.

“We also dragged six or seven mattresses and tied them in a circle with one in the middle.”

The first voice chimes in. “Mattresses? What’d you need mattresses for?”

“Really? Did you seriously just ask me that question? It’s a goddamn story. All you have to do is listen.” 

The grin doesn’t return to either of their faces despite the second voice’s clear annoyance. James is staring down the hallway with a hard look on his face. Preston feels queasy. 

“So yeah, we tied these mattresses together, and then we placed one mattress in the middle and put the kid on it. We doused all the mattresses with gas except his, and then we lit them on fire and pushed them down into the water.” 

Preston feels sick, like he’s about to break out in hives. He’s seen plenty of ruthless killing in his days, but to torture someone with their own fear? Shit. 

“We followed the burning mattresses down the river  _ laughing our asses off  _ waiting for the kid to wake up. After five minutes we realized the kid wasn’t going to wake up, so we all took turns throwing rocks at him. After a couple of hits, the kid’s awake. At this point the flames were huge! Imagine what it must’ve been like for him, waking up, not knowing where he was, and all he sees is fire.”

Preston sees James start to slowly edge closer to the doorway where the voices are coming from, murder in his eyes. He follows without question.

“The kid tries to stand up, but can’t get his footing on the soggy mattress. At this point, I’m laughing so hard I fall down.”

How the hell people find enjoyment out of others fear, Preston will never know.

“That is crazy! I bet he overcame his fear of fire. Hah! ‘Trial by fire?’”

“Nah, he never did. Turns out the kid couldn’t swim. Anyway, that’s that.”

It’s quiet for a moment before the first voice closes the conversation. “Didn’t see  _ that _ comin’.”

“Didn’t see this coming either, did you asshole?” James shouts, jumping from his cover and shooting rapid-fire down the hallway, taking out one of the raiders but alerting the rest.

“Heads!” Preston yells as a Molotov sails over them. James jumps out of the way just as the path he was taking lights up in flames, having been covered in some sort of fuel. A stray bullet nicks Preston in the side and he hisses before falling behind the counter. He puts a hand to his side and pulls back to see hot, sticky blood coating his fingers. He curses and aims over the counter, taking out one of the last raiders in the room. 

At some point James joins him behind the counter, covering him while he turns his musket. When the room is cleared and the raiders that haven’t been killed take a moment to gather themselves, James turns his attention to him. 

“You good?” He questions, glancing over the counter to make sure they’re safe.

Preston winces. “Got hit.”

“Bad?”

“Pretty.”

“Shit,” James grumbles before rummaging around his pockets to grab a stimpak. “It better be _pretty_ _fucking_ bad, asshole. This is my last one.”

Preston looks to the stimpak but doesn't take it. “No, save it. You might get worse,” he says, putting pressure on the wound. It isn’t deadly, and even if it is, this is a nice way to go out. The Minutemen have a new general, settlements are already starting to join back up with them; all that needs to happen now is for the Castle to get retaken, but he can settle with this.

A sharp prick in his side shakes him from his thoughts. 

“You didn’t,” he croaks, but he can already feel the wound start to stitch itself back together.

“I did. Now get up.”

Preston bites his tongue and does as he was told, following James through a white door to the rest of the raiders.

“Show your face, tough guy!” One of them shouts and Preston hears James crack his knuckles in front of him. He opens the first door on the right and James blows the head of the raider inside clean off before she could even react.

“Fuck! Clutch!” Another raider shouts from a separate room and footsteps rush towards them.

“Guess that was Clutch,” Preston quips and James glances at the corpse, spitting on it before moving on. Preston raises a brow but says nothing. She had it coming to her.

They continue up each floor, clearing out the raiders as they go until there’s no living soul left but theirs. By the time they’re done backtracking and taking whatever they can fit on their persons, the sun is beginning to set.

“Saw a mattress on the top floor,” Preston suggests, leaning against the exit to the store. His own bedroll has been ripped to shreds by a raider with a knife and James’ is covered with gasoline or whatever the raiders had coated part of the floors with. “That is, if you’re still interested in sleeping on a mattress after that psycho’s story.”

“There’s only one,” James says blandly, though he’s already walking up the stairs to the room. 

“So?”

“ _ So? _ Are you serious?” James scoffs before falling onto the bright red couch and kicking his feet up on the table, knocking some papers off. “Oh,” he mutters, picking one of the magazines he kicked up and shaking it off. Preston spies the cover and sees it’s a Grognak comic. “Used to read these as a kid.”

“Hey, don’t change the subject,” Preston sighs. “What’s the problem with sharing a bed?”

“It’s  _ gay _ , Preston.”

Preston blanches at the bluntness of his words, feeling heat grow in his cheeks. “Wow,” he coughs. “ _ Wow.” _

James pays him no mind and opens the comic, skimming the first page.

“Don’t ignore me, James.”

“I’m not ignoring you. There’s nothing else to say. I’ll take the couch.”

“There is more to say!” Preston shouts, near hysterical. “You’ve got  _ so much  _ wrong. I mean, first of all, sharing a bed is  _ not  _ gay—” James scoffs “—and second of all, even if it  _ was _ , so what? Who cares?”

“I care! I have— I had a wife! I can’t just… just…” James deflates, sinking into the couch.

_ Had. _ “Do you think it’s cheating?”

“I can’t cheat on someone dead.” James’ voice is cold. Hollow.

Preston sits on the coffee table in front of the couch, taking off his hat and wringing it between his hands. “Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Alright. I won’t push.” James looks away. “I just need to make sure of one more thing, though.” James says nothing so he continues. “You don’t actually think it’s bad to be attracted to men, right?”

James grimaces. “I don’t know how it is here, but that shit wasn’t tolerated where I’m from, especially in the army… I…” He clicks his tongue and sighs. “It doesn’t matter. I won’t talk like that anymore.”

“The problem isn’t that you said it, it’s that you even  _ thought  _ about it. I mean, we’ve got ghouls and super mutants and synths now; people don’t have the time to give a shit ‘bout what gender your lover is. Hell, in this world you’ll probably only get a few years outta the relationship anyway, before one of you die.”

James shakes his head. “I get it. Let’s just drop it.”

“No. James, you have to understand—”

“I  _ get it, _ okay? Wanna share a bed? Fucking  _ fine. _ ”

James rises from the couch and drops himself onto the mattress, facing the wall, his back to Preston. There’s a construction light in the room, basking it in bright light, so Preston can easily see how tightly James’ eyes are screwed shut. 

He sighs and shakes his head before joining James on the mattress, backs facing each other with a foot between them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I'm so happy that Fallout 4 takes place in Boston so I don't have to edit my accent out of the dialogue. I've also actually been to quite a few of the locations that are in the game, so it's fun to be able to write about something I already know about. Going off of that, Lexington is a great town, but damn is housing expensive there.
> 
> I'm not sure how I feel about the part where the raiders are talking, but I heard it in my playthrough and thought it would add some realism if I added it to the fic as well. I hope it isn't too boring :/
> 
> Chapter title from the song [It Could Happen to You by Frank Sinatra](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xuRab-WYhpM)

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow my main Tumblr [here](https://npc-113.tumblr.com/) and my writing Tumblr [here](https://npc-113-writes.tumblr.com/) :)


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